The party was excellent. A couple dozen superior beings, ranging in age from two to seventy-seven, came, feasted, toasted The Dean Project, drank beers, wine and juice (but not from sippy cups, because we are too grown up for that), and generally partied. Not a late night. Since it was Sunday, the celebrating was compact and dense. Like an earth-friendly flourescent light bulb.
Annie and I are both recovering from our own folly.
Annie managed to lap up a gob of barbequed chicken fat off the bottom of the grill (while more melted fat dripped onto her head). Being hosts, we were off hosting while she managed to Hoover up what later that night became clear was upwards of a quart of black, charred grease. By "later that night," I mean twelve-thirty, and again at three-thirty. And by "became clear," I mean because we got to see it again on the carpet.
Today I bought and broke in a new carpet cleaner, and Annie spent the day outside cleaning out the rest of her stomach, barf by barf (aside from the time she spent in the bath tub getting the chicken grease removed from her head).
I succumbed to my own delicious poison: chocolate cake. It's like taking a sleeping pill. A sleeping pill that tastes like chocolate cake. I need to eat it, then I get a window of about 30 seconds to get up and do something active. If I miss that window, I fall asleep. Then I wake up craving more cake.
I ate a piece of leftover cake after lunch today and made the mistake of settling down with the National Geographic for ten minutes, tops. Two hours later, I woke up craving more.
Yes, I ate another piece. But this time, I ate and dove outside and starting pulling ivy before the narcolepsy could take hold.
Happy Monday. Watch out for the cake. And steer clear of chicken grease.